


A Pleasure Doing Business

by SummerAtLast



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alien Biology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2325656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerAtLast/pseuds/SummerAtLast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cut to the chase," Strife said.<br/>"I wouldn't really call it a chase, my friend. You're not running."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pleasure Doing Business

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [closed door negotiations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322020) by [chailattemusings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailattemusings/pseuds/chailattemusings). 



> I would like to blame Lucy, Chai, and Boa for this.

“I know you’re there, Kirin,” said Strife flatly. The storm sage stepped out of the shadows with a face like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and not an undoubtedly-armed intruder.

“Just out of curiosity, how did you know it was me?" He almost managed to make it sound like an innocent question, flashing a disarming smile, but Strife kept a careful eye on him. "I’m sure I was invisible. And you had your back turned.” 

“That’s none of your business,” said Strife.

“But it’s your business,” said Kirin, stepping closer. “And I’m sure you don’t have any problem doing business with me.”

Strife carefully relaxed his shoulders, painfully aware that he wasn’t wearing his exoskeleton. He’d just have to bluff it out until Kirin left or he could maneuver him into a position that gave him the advantage. “Not all information is for sale, Kirin.”

"Are you sure there's nothing I could offer you for it, Strife? Nothing you want?"

Strife walked to the crafting table, the image of relaxed confidence, and didn’t reply. Silence was a great tool for making people talk, and if he gave Kirin enough rope, he’d be certain to trip over it and tell Strife what he was really here for, whether he meant to or not. Strife waited casually, ignoring the storm sage. It would be more convincing if there was a project on the table to fiddle with, but for once Strife’s neatness was working against him, and the table, though work-scarred, was bare. He ran a hand across the table consideringly, and held his peace.

Strife felt the prickle up his spine as Kirin moved in behind him, his skin tightening as if he were standing too close to the furnace.

“And what would you say if I wanted to find out on my own?”

Strife froze in place. This was definitely a threat, but it remained to be seen if Kirin was willing to back it up with anything, or was just trying to knock him off balance before offering another suspiciously good deal and seeing how many of the strings Strife found.

Strife bit his lip as Kirin’s hands drifted onto him, focusing on the feeling of hands sliding down his stomach, over his hips, then curving around his hipbones with an expectant pause.

What was he doing? Did he actually expect an answer? What was the question?

Strife felt the electric fizz across his neck and cheek as Kirin leaned in to murmur in his ear. “Do you want me to find out?” Kirin’s voice was light and friendly, and his hands felt heavy and unexpectedly warm and Strife shifted in his grip, skin prickling and heart beating entirely too fast for what really wasn’t that intimate of a touch. Damn storm sage and his mind games and trick questions, always trying to - why wasn’t he making a move?

He saw the blue glow Kirin’s eyes cast across his skin, knew Kirin had his eyes open and was watching him with amusement as he squirmed.

“Cut to the chase,” he said. He could have sworn he bit off anything else, like "god yes" or "stop teasing" but Kirin’s cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Strife swore he could feel a smile pressed against his neck for a moment before Kirin bit him gently, just the lightest pressure of teeth, and a less alert man wouldn’t have understood that for the threat it was.

“I wouldn’t really call it a chase, my friend. You’re not running.”

Kirin's hand stroked upwards, sliding across his waistcoat and tugging experimentally at the buttons before he brought up his other hand to open it and his shirt, unfolding Strife like the petals of a flower and touching him gently. Strife swallowed hard, and sneered at the exaggerated delicacy that really was just a show of power, a reminder that mortals were nowhere near his league.

Strife’s firefly glow was brighter now without the double layer of clothes to cover the embarrassing reaction, god he could see them flickering on as Kirin’s hands passed over him, warming to his touch.

He panted, feeling Kirin's hands on his naked ribs, felt his heart drumming through the too-thin armor of flesh and bone, his ribcage moving under the demigod’s hands with each breath, and distantly noticed that Kirin was breathing faster too. Whatever he was made of, at least he wasn’t that impervious.

He could feel Kirin's heart beating behind him, a pulse that lit up his ampullae more than the steady hum of his machines ever did, alive and fast and dangerous. He braced his hands against the crafting table. The crafting table was empty, and he had no idea what he was doing. He swallowed.

Kirin's hand drifted down, and Strife sucked in a breath and tensed as it passed his belt and moved between his legs, lightly tracing the outlines through his pants.

Kirin paused with a hum of surprise. “What's this, then?” His fingers explored the hard knots, tracing around them and between them and to Strife’s surprise and embarrassment, the fronds were already uncoiling and softening for him, moving at his touch.

“Doesn’t need an instruction manual,” said Strife between clenched teeth. It was ordinarily a delight to find a shortcoming in Kirin’s extensive knowledge base, but right now it was really much more of an inconvenience. Hopefully the storm sage’s aggressive curiosity would work to Strife’s advantage for once.

“How do you want me to touch you, Mr. Strife?” The title didn’t sound professional at all in Kirin’s mouth.

Strife sucked in a breath and nodded, eyes screwed shut, and grabbed Kirin's wrist, pushing it harder against him. Kirin laughed, cupping him warmly and grinding the heel of his hand down, moving it in in circles, and Strife rocked his hips into it. Strife could feel Kirin towering behind him, curled around him so close that his ampullae shivered at the near-contact, at the occasional brushes of warmth and the sharp flickers of static from friction.

Kirin put one hand on the crafting table over Strife’s hand, pressing closer around him, and Strife shuddered as the warmth closed over his back and shoulders, Kirin’s dick hard and moving against Strife through the shifting layers of his robes.

“Like that, apparently,” laughed Kirin. “Would you like it better without clothes?”

“Is that. Ffffucking. Rhetorical,” panted Strife.

He felt embarrassingly open, cheeks heating up as he watched Kirin’s hand moving, freckles shamelessly blazing brighter at the lightest touch of Kirin's lips, fronds uncoiling under the rough fast friction of Kirin's hand.

Kirin kissed the back of Strife’s neck and Strife jolted, the sizzling shock of skin contact intensified by the wet brush of his tongue. Kirin snickered and did it again. Strife ducked his head, curling his hands into fists on the crafting table. Typical storm sage, couldn’t stop messing with people, poking at them, trying to get a reaction.

Kirin pulled away from Strife's back, and took his hand away, and Strife yelped in outrage, twisting around to glare at him. Kirin stopped him in his tracks with two firm hands on his shoulders, and Strife wasn’t fooled by the gentleness of his grip for a second, he knew how strong the storm sage was. He froze, waiting.

Kirin just squeezed his shoulders in approval and slid his hands warmly over Strife’s chest to the bare skin before peeling off the tangled layers. The sleeves twisted tight over his arms, and Strife’s hands were trapped behind his back for a moment as Kirin peeled his shirt off. Goosebumps broke out over his skin, and his ampullae flared bright in warning. Kirin hummed thoughtfully and lightly gathered Strife’s wrists together in one big hand.

Strife gasped and jerked free, but all Kirin did was chuckle and soothe a broad palm across his back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It was a lie, of course. All promises like that were. First rule of business deals, if they have to make a promise, they already know you don’t believe them. Strife knew better.

“Then what _are_ you going to do?” he challenged.

“What do you want me to do?”

Of course. Never could just have a straight conversation, always trying to get the advantage, trick him into something, and slip under his guard. He could hear the patient indulgence in his voice, as if Strife were some sort of - of.

Kirin's fingers idly traced the swirling lines of freckles across his ribs until Strife flinched away, the feeling too intense and not where he needed it. He hissed, fumbling with his belt buckle. Kirin was just going to take liberties he had no business taking and tease him until he gave in and begged for it, and forget that, he wasn't going to do that.

There was a pause, and then Kirin's hands left him. Strife tensed, trying to figure out what he was doing. His ampullae could track him moving, but the prickles across his back weren't a mirror, and he didn’t know where Kirin’s hands were or what was in them. Kirin's aura was even vaguer than most, the charged cloud of electricity that hung around him distorting the signals from Strife’s ampullae with a warm shivery sensation that always left Strife stiff-backed around Kirin, trying not to scratch at his skin until the feeling faded away like an itch. Strife couldn’t even feel the chorus of warm and friendly circuitry in the machines around him, just the storm sage looming behind him like a thunderhead.

There was a whisper of fabric, and Strife held very still. He strained to hear if he was taking something out of his pockets, and tried to judge the quality of the armor he was undoubtedly wearing under his robes. There was a sound of heavy silk sliding against skin, then a whump as the storm sage’s robes fell to the floor and he pressed back in. Strife made an entirely uncalled-for noise at the full-body contact, the giddy warmth of naked skin and the crackles of static from the furry pelt on Kirin’s chest.

Kirin brought his arms back around Strife to box him in against the crafting table again, a horn brushing Strife’s neck as he tucked his chin over Strife’s shoulder to watch his hands on his belt. Strife didn’t realize it was going to be a show, but he was an experienced businessman and knew how to sell a - how to convince someone to - how to give someone what they wanted. His hands absolutely didn’t tremble as he worked the buckle, unzipped himself, and pushed his pants down.

His fronds clung to the cloth, and Strife jerked roughly to detach their grabby little leaves. They curled up in protest, dimming their light and flattening their leaves against the spines of their tendrils. Kirin tsked and reached out a hand to gently stroke one, and the leaves just opened up under his touch, the other one stretching to reach him like a sunflower following the sun. It hadn't been that long, there was absolutely no reason for this sort of overreaction. It should have taken them much longer to warm up to him, but there he was, pushing his way into tendrils that were more than happy to keep him there.

“Friendly, Mr. Strife,” said Kirin, turning his hand to watch the fronds play along it. “Are you always like this?”

The fronds curled around his fingers, opening their leaves to explore the texture of the calluses, and tugging his hand downwards. Strife's hips bucked and he tried to steady his breath as Kirin obligingly slid a hand between his legs. His sheath was wet, the cilia moving eagerly as Kirin's fingers brushed them, the fronds wiggling and adjusting their grip to guide him in. Kirin's two fingers slid in effortlessly, the cilia pulsing in waves of relentless suction, the fronds trying to unbend his other fingers and draw them in too.

“Wouldn’t you. Like. To,” panted Strife, his voice tightening as Kirin scissored his fingers inside him.

“Yes, I would, actually.”

Kirin twisted his hand, touching around inside Strife as he slid his fingers in and out. Strife moaned, rocking his hips forward and using his grip on Kirin's wrist to set the pace. He heard the crackle of static from the friction between them, and felt his hair standing on end, reaching for Kirin like every traitorous part of him. Strife swore he could feel Kirin’s lightning in the coiling tension of his gut, a hook sunk into the deepest part of him and fool that he was, he didn’t even pull away.

Kirin's dick nudged his thigh, leaving a wet trace as it moved between his legs, seeking, but fell short. Kirin made a frustrated noise and clamped down on Strife's hip with his free hand, lifting Strife on his toes and tilting his hips forwards. Strife fell forwards, slapping the crafting table for balance, gasping at the sudden shift of Kirin's fingers in him. A frond unstuck itself from Kirin's slippery fingers, reaching back for his dick to bring it in.

Kirin breathed out a delighted laugh at the delicate little tickle of the leaves sticking to him and fluttering to shift their grip as the tendril wound around his dick, reeling him in like a fish on a line, except Kirin wasn't putting up any resistance, he was crowding closer and pushing his hips against Strife, sliding tight between Strife’s legs and trying to find the way in. The tip of his dick bumped against his hand and curved upwards to find Strife’s sheath as the tendril pulled it, and Strife could feel Kirin’s pulse in it, could feel the wetness of the tip and the sinuous motion of it as Kirin worked his way in next to his fingers, the tightness making them both groan.

And then he pulled away. Strife hissed and clamped down with all his strength, pulling tightly with the fronds and squeezing Kirin’s wrist so hard he felt the bones move under his skin.

“Come on, trust me, I'll make it good,” panted Kirin.

“Trust is. A.” He had forgotten the word. But trust was definitely not a thing that applied to Kirin, and it was definitely not something worth parsing out when Kirin was pulling his hand away with his terrifying strength and the fronds grudgingly lost their grip on him, leaf by determined leaf.

Strife snarled as the last straining leaf peeled away from Kirin, and spun around, ready to confront him and knock him down and just-

And Kirin laughed in his face, scooping him up effortlessly with an appreciative squeeze of his ass and dropping him on the crafting table. Strife sprawled across its work-scarred top, flinching from the sudden cold across his back, his stomach tense as he tried to push himself up, but Kirin just cast an admiring glance over him, eyes tracing the furious glow of the freckles down his front as he casually tucked a hand under Strife’s ankle and lifted it up to pull off his boots and pants. Strife was disconcertingly aware that he was entirely armorless, with nothing at hand to defend himself as Kirin loomed over him with his foreign blue glow and friendly avarice and ulterior motives.

And then Kirin folded to the ground, kneeling between Strife’s legs, horns pushing his thighs further apart. Strife lifted his head and saw the top of Kirin’s curls as he licked him between the legs.

“Ah!” Strife hit his head against the crafting table, his back arching.

The storm sage might have had a smug observation to make, but the fronds snagged him again, demanding his attention, sticking to his cheeks, twining into his beard and flaring their leaves at the rough prickle of stubble. There was a rumble of a chuckle against him, and Kirin got down to business, licking and pushing into him with his tongue. Strife's leg jerked in reflex, kicking Kirin in the ribs, but Kirin seemed unconcerned about the bruise, and just guided Strife’s legs up over his shoulders.

Strife couldn't hold still, legs curling and stretching as Kirin turned his head to gently mouth at the leaves of a frond. His mouth opened and closed, and his hands slid restlessly across his own skin, leaving a glow in their trail from throat to stomach, and he strained to touch the soft wool of Kirin’s curls, the hard spiral of his horns where they rubbed against his thighs.

Kirin laid a kiss against the base of a frond and slid his fingers back into Strife, and Strife shivered, the giddy thrill in his stomach just like flying with a jetpack.

“Faster,” he said, almost laughing.

Kirin gave it to him harder, hand making embarrassingly wet noises, lips moving as if he was saying something into Strife’s skin, but Strife was beyond caring, urging him on as his breath came shorter and shorter.

Strife cried out, hand buried in Kirin's curls, tensing as the shocks rippled through him, his cilia pulsing in waves and pulling Kirin in tight. Kirin rode it out, drawing his hand back slowly as the fronds released him and curled up hard. Strife’s breathing gradually slowed, and he shivered as Kirin gently drew his tongue over the closed fronds. The fronds twitched, and Strife felt an echoing pulse in his sheath, the cilia still lazily sucking at Kirin’s fingertips.

Strife hummed happily. Kirin's hand felt warm, moving slowly deeper again.

Kirin stood up, and Strife couldn't even bring himself to care that he was sprawled out in front of him, wet and vulnerable, with nothing between him and Kirin's lightning. Kirin slid his hands up Strife's thighs, digging his fingers into the unresisting muscles, and Strife closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to the coolness of the crafting table. He felt Kirin's dick slide across his sheath, and a frond languidly extended to capture it.

“You're a delight like this, Mr. Strife,” breathed Kirin. “So soft. So trusting.”

Kirin stroked the tender skin of Strife's stomach with an almost closed hand, just the gentle brush of knuckles, softer than the calluses of his fingers. Strife sighed and hooked a foot behind Kirin's knee, tugging, but couldn't muster up any more strength. Kirin braced his hands under Strife’s legs and Strife curled them around him. Was that a tail? Funny, he'd never noticed it through the robes. Kirin's dick slid in sweet and easy, bending inside him, stroking the walls as Strife’s cilia gently pulsed with aftershocks.

Kirin was in no great hurry, rocking into Strife slowly and effortlessly as his eyes played across Strife's body with gleeful avarice, taking in the softly fading glow of his freckles, the flicker of light every time he pushed in, the slow rise and fall of Strife's ribs and the softness of his stomach. Kirin spent himself with a low exhale, slumping forwards, head bowed over Strife.

Strife reached out a hand to pet his curls – really, he must find a way to breed sheep with wool that nice – and rested it heavily on Kirin's head. His hand didn't quite seem to be under his control again yet, and resisted moving with a warm lassitude.

Kirin lifted his head to look Strife in the eye, and Strife met his gaze through half-closed eyes, fingers still carded through his hair. Stay silent, and give him rope. Strife watched his face carefully, and Kirin broke into his usual carelessly friendly grin.

“Mr. Strife, it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

 


End file.
